When All You Have Is Nothing Get Revenge
by The Tornado Chaser
Summary: They're all dead. She has nothing. No name. No face. No body. When all you have is nothing, why not get revenge? Oneshot darkfic. Rated M for mature content.


Carefully she pulls her stockings on, pulling silky black hair back into a perfect ponytail, reapplying the lipstick she was always wearing—creamy pink—and making sure that she looked better upon leaving than arrival. He begins to kiss her perfect neck, hands caressing her tragically angelic chin. She dimly wonders whether it ever occurred to these idiot men that whores have had sex before, therefore rarely enjoy it as much; she wonders if it occurs to them to think about whether she is acting or not.

She slaps his hands away, and he laughs gently, trying again. Her voice is stronger than she looks. "Hands off, Malfoy. I'm not your mistress, I'm your sex toy, but for a night, only."

Lucius is unsettled by her no-intimacy policy. What sort of prostitute prefers not to be cosseted?

"I'm the sort of prostitute that doesn't like being touched," she tells him, shocking him thoroughly--as though she read his thoughts.

"What was your name?" he asks her softly. The bedroom is the only place he allows himself to be less than imperial.

"My name is Harriet," she tells him, once again looking away.

"What kind of name is Harriet?" he says with a grin.

"A false one," she replies, picking up the bag of Galleons by the bed, sticking it in her purse, clicking her manicured nails against each other.

She leaves, a wispy smell of peaches the only hint that she has been there.

Her heels click the pavement, and she is walking fast. She hates the fake hair, the fake eye color, the fake nose, the fake lips. Most of all she hates the fake name.

She hates the Dark Magic books she has filled her home with. She hates the hours she spends pouring herself over them. She hates the necessity. She hates the job she has given in to.

Having those rich fools touch her body, explore it…It isn't right that men she considers enemies know her more intimately than even the man she had at one time loved.

She hates the faked moans, the lusty kissing (usually slobbery at best), spreading her smooth, white legs for those disgusting men. Every one of His inner circle has enjoyed her. They didn't share their sex lives with their Lord, which was fortunate for her. If they did, he would immediately realize the danger and have her exterminated. Even worse, he would realize her identity and destroy her more thoroughly.

How she _despises _the way she acquires that thrill as certain Death Eaters mount her. The memory of her encounter with Snape still haunted her….

_He touched her collar bone, tracing the hollow of her neck, trailing his finger between her breasts. She was nervous, and she sweated herself into a wet sheen. He had mistaken that for excitement. _

"_Not just yet, tasty little morsel."_

_She wondered briefly if he would be horrified, knowing she was a former student. She wondered (less briefly) if he had ever lusted after her as a student. She hadn't changed much since sixth year. Her breasts were only slightly larger, and her ass only slightly more sumptuous. And how could he tell through the robes?_

_She decided to put more into her performance. She swung her leg around his waist and her skirt barely concealed her white, muscular legs. Her hands placed his on her ass and leg. But they didn't stay there. As she sucked on his lips, his hands wandered up the skirt. She moved her hips into his, panting like a bitch in heat. All he saw were the crystal blue eyes, and all he felt was her hands on his penis, inside his pants. That's what he wanted, to feel something smooth across his crotch._

_His hands continued to explore her. He was, admittedly, still a virgin. This young woman had convinced him that he wanted sex (now) in his apartment (but paid for). It hadn't taken too much, either; just a glimpse of the secret area between her legs, a flash of her areola. _

_She pushed him down, getting into the performance. She opened his shirt, trying to hide the disgust at his hairy and fat laden chest. She pulled off his pants, his gray underwear, and then slowly undid the shirt, no bra included. Her breasts swayed jauntily in his eyes, and she could see them reflected there._

_Before she could remove it, he simply pulled her skirt above her waist. He didn't even bother with mounting her. He stuck his hands more intimately inside her, exploring what he thought was his. She began to moan with the pressure. He delved a bit deeper; suddenly and sickeningly, she realized that she was enjoying this, enjoying having his hands on her. She pushed the revulsion away, thinking that if she is to live and stave away madness, she would have to enjoy it as much as possible._

_She came earlier than either of them desired, but she was nowhere near ready to give up. She allowed him to suckle her breasts, occasionally biting, and her mind wandered. Before long, though, he requested she return the favor, and her beautiful lips were required (disgustingly) to go to his member._

_Then she stopped remembering._

The memory, she realizes, has caused her to cry. Worse still, she notices that she is wet, and that thought repulses her more than any other. She knows she has to Apparate immediately.

Coming to an abrupt stop in her own bathroom, Hermione leans over her toilet and gags herself, causing herself to puke. She needs to control herself, control her thoughts. Getting rid of that ridiculous food that Lucius had forced her to eat (strawberries and bananas dipped in chocolate) would be the most effortless way to do so. It is the only way she can control her life, anyway. The bulimia saves her in ways that her prostitution can only make worse.

She brushes her teeth, staring into the mirror dully. She grimaces, then tries to smile. Nothing, there is no smile there. Stony faced, she slams her fist into the mirror, ignoring the shards that remained. She rips away the mirror, leaving no trace except for the part of the wall it had once been attached to. Realizing the reason behind the sadness, Hermione sweeps a hand over her face, which instantly changes back into the shadow of its former owner. Even though the eyes are the same color, they are dull and lifeless. The cheeks are the same dimpled shape, but there is no pretty pallor in them. Her mouth is the same flavor, but it has lost its stubborn appeal. Her hair is still brown and bushy, but there is no luster there.

Hermione's apartment is ugly and bare. The walls are disgusting—once tangerine and now brown. There are leaks in numerous places, and Hermione considers herself fortunate that she had been unfortunate enough to land the highest (and worst) apartment within her building. There would be no truly unpleasant leaks, and she gets by with just enough.

She sits down, exhausted and dirty, on the musty old couch. She remembers to sit on the left side, because the right side has nasty points somewhere within the cushions. Wondering dully what (that was indeed a question) or when (more important a question, though) she would eat, her mind wanders into what should have been.

She _should _be sitting in a manor (she imagines that whatever job she would have had in the place of prostitution would bring in more money than the Malfoy inheritance), cuddling an adorable little girl with red curls and blue eyes, a little boy with waves of brown hair (both children would have an equal amount of both parents) and brown eyes. They would giggle contentedly, then run along to their playroom. The great door would open and Hermione would turn with a light in her eyes. "Ronald!" she would exclaim, running to him, asking him, "Why didn't you just Apparate?"

"I thought it would be more romantic to just come in a sweep you off your feet the conventional way," he would admit, blushing at the ears. Then they would immediately retire to the bedroom (children forgotten) and make love into the long hours, sleeping through the morning (forgetting both their jobs).

With a sigh, Hermione stands, stretching. She feels so disgusting. She wants so much to make those men feel the same. She wants them to see their dreams slip past their fingers. She wants them to suffer. She wants them to _die _just as they had made Harry and Ron do so. Even more, she wants them to be naked and powerless before her. She wants to be the Goddess of Death, and even at the moment of death, she wants them to lust after her, thinking in some small part of their brain that they could live if only they could have her.

Blinking, Hermione wonders aloud, "Why the fuck have I not done just that?"

The seeds of planning are so beautiful.

She conquers the larger parts of her plan first. She needs to know how to plant images into their minds…pictures of what could have been had they not died. They need not be factual. They should play the desires of that person, and tell each and every victim that is precisely what would have happened, leaving no doubt within their minds.

She visits Knockturn Alley first. A bookshop should tell her the precise potion that she needs.

Disguised and carrying a trinket stolen from among a rich client's possessions (no doubt his wife's), Hermione looks through the books, using her Glamoured nails (painted black) to prevent the bookkeeper from seeing the true her. The clothing she wears is good enough for that. A slit crawls up her legs, and the gentle material moves over her breasts, revealing nothing but insinuating everything.

The scuzzy bookkeeper doesn't notice the signs of her Muggle parents. She finds the perfect spell within the most unexpected book possible: _Most Potente Potions_. She laughs at the irony of it all, and her laugh jars the bookkeeper, who is staring unabashed at her breasts.

The concoction is complicated, requiring items far more expensive than she had originally thought. She realizes that she's going to have to use her profession to get through this one. She buys the book, her fingers lingering on the bookkeepers, whose pulse quickens under her fingers. She leaves her peach scent behind her, which smells to him as a promise.

Her next stop is to put the materials together for that potion. Fortunate for her, the man at the counter is unable to take his eyes off her. She tells him that she needs her lover to understand her, and this is the only way to get him to comprehend her undying devotion.

"You understand, ah…Bernard," she adds, glancing at the name tag, "don't you?"

He draws in a deep breath. "Well, my _chére_, I can't just tell my employer that the ingredients are missing and the money gone on account of a sympathetic heart."

Her eyes flutter, and a single pearly tear crawls down her face. He seems troubled, but unmoved.

"I tell you what," she says. "I will render you my services, and in payment, you will pay for it."

He gulps. "I have a wife…" but with her seductive glance, his resolve is given the most shattering and fatal blow. He walks sneakily to the shop window and places a "Closed" sign in the window, turning down the lights. It doesn't occur to him that a hooker probably wouldn't have a lover.

_God help me with what I am about to do_, she thinks to herself, eyes flickering upward. _God has nothing to do with it_, retorts a voice that Hermione has long ago learned to ignore.

She flicks her wand, and no longer can anyone from the streets look in the window. She sits on the counter, bare behind on some papers that "Bernard" had been previously been rifling through. She bares her breasts and pulls his face to her chest, giving into the wayward man who is about as seductive as an old hog far past his siring years.

She hates her faked moans of lust.

The despicable afternoon has proved fruitful. Though her nipples have become sore from frequent rubbing, she ignores it and continues on with starting the potion.

It takes little time to prepare, and within the week will be ready for use. She bought enough ingredients to give her two cauldrons of the solution, and she replicates as many beakers as possible.

While she waits for certain parts to brew, she looks through Olde Latin books, some written in Greek lettering, others in Cyrillic. She is looking for the best way to cause them pain. She finds that the Cruciatus is not painful enough. She wants there to be something more painful without inducing madness. She discovers that there are certain words that she can use to trigger different hormones. Instead of causing them pain, she thinks, why not make them think they are in more pain than is humanly possible, more than the Cruciatus curse? The thought thrills her, and she practices the spell upon spiders within a jar. They scuttle around, or flip themselves on their backs, shuddering magnificently. Satisfied, she frees them into a very pretty environment that she has created herself, feeling that she needs to compensate for that torture.

"And to think," she says, "with one word I can have armies of men crawling at my feet, begging for mercy."

She needs now to figure out which Love potion she needs. Different potions induce different parts of love. She needs Lust, Want, and Need.

She slips into a book that she had once acquired from her parents, who bought her this book on her eighteenth birthday as a joke. _Love Potions and How They Work _by _Venus Cox_.

She reads into different ingredients, and why they work, scribbling down notes and ideas, fragments of her potion in pieces of sentences. She finds that for the first time in so long she is enjoying herself. She does not know whether it is the prospect of revenge or if it is simply learning, but either way she is satisfied in doing this.

After a long night of putting together this scheme, Hermione decides to bathe. The bathtub is one of few things that is immaculately clean. She is persistent in her desire to be squeaky clean. She slides into the hot bath, sighing contentedly, scouring scum and sweat off her body.

As she cleans, her mind wanders once more. She dreams of the ways that Ron could touch her, could satisfy her. Her hands explore her own body, imagining they are his. For once in her life, she is pleasing herself and none other, without revenge or something similar in mind.

Her first victim is planned.

She has chosen to work her way up. She chooses first to deal with Crabbe.

Crabbe is a frequent customer, and he has paid a large sum of money to have her visit regularly on Tuesday nights while his wife and their eight-year-old daughter Miranda go to the Lord's Hall (Tuesday nights are for wives and children) to play poker and let her daughter be taught Dark secrets.

His wife is the former Millicent Bulstrode.

Hermione is prepared. She has concocted a brilliant plan. She starts with the wine, in which she pours the Desire Potion and Love Potion, both slow-working, sipping her own unaltered glass contentedly. It is a good year, but his tastes crummy, which he comments on.

"This stuff tastes like shit," he comments. "What vintage did you say it was?"

"My dear, it is what _you _ordered," she reminded him. "Much like, say, your own death?"

He blinks slowly, not understanding.

She is suddenly very business-like. She pushes the cloak that she wears behind her, and he sees that she is dressed like the daughter of Hades. She is wearing a sheer cloth of black, through which he can see the body that he knew so intimately. Suddenly he realizes that she is changing. She no longer looks like Harriet the Whore. Instead, she looks very familiarly like—

"Hey, you're—you're—"

"That's right, Crabbe," she drawls. "I'm that filthy little Mudblood. In fact, I'm the filthy little Mudblood over whom you've crooned love and lust. You've had your tongue inside your body, tasting me, telling me how good it is to taste a fine, Fullblooded woman."

He reaches for his wand, but she laughs, "Oh no, none of that. _Expelliarmus!_"

His wand explodes from his back pocket. "I—I thought that you were killed."

"You see, Crabbe, what you forget that I was the smartest witch in our year. And your friend Malfoy never remembered that. Too bad for him. Enough chit chat, though; I have seen too much revenge gone to waste over a silly monologue. Time for _pain_." She directs her wand at him, and he begins to scream. She thanks the gods that he had thought to sound-proof the walls.

As he screams, he begins to beg for mercy, and she sees that his "medicine" was working. As he writhes on the floor, she sees how he still lusts for her, sees the bulge in his crotch, sees how even in this pain, he has the time to be horny.

In disgust, she releases the spell and says, "I'm going to put you out of your misery, now. But remember this as you go to whatever maker you believe. Every major religion or belief in the world has one concept: We all must pay the price for our sins. There's judgment for Christians, karma for Buddhists, death for Death Eaters, etcetera. I want you to know, as I pull your brains out through your nose, that this is the price that evil men pay when they have the blood of innocents on their hands."

"_Accio Brain!_" she cries, pointing to his head with her wand.

She turns away as his brains are ripped out from every crevice and his heart burns him alive.

Every death has its own trademark. Hermione makes every man suffer psychologically in different ways.

Her revenge on Snape is more than perfection. It is fate.

As he lays over her, panting, roughly inserting himself into her, then humping mercilessly (Hermione realized he had been putting on pounds all these years as the Dark Lord pampered him with money for the death of Dumbledore), she allows the glamour to occasionally flash, and he thinks for one moment that she looks like Granger, but then she is back to Harriet. These moments cause panic in his eyes, and Hermione feels a rush as the man is truly terrified. She smiles and suddenly she is extremely horny, feeling she has to soak this up for all it is worth. She claws at his ass, using her fingernails, screaming with delight. The glamour continues to flash, and Snape has lost heart. When he no longer works at all, she pushes him over and mounts him, exerting as much force as possible, scaring the shit out of the man she is practically raping.

"Enough!" he screamed, and she looked concerned.

She steps out of bed, pulling on an unrecognized sheer black robe—her Dark Goddess robe—and stepping before him.

"What's that Professor? Is there something wrong? I really hope not, I've tried so hard. You know, all those years with you sitting there pointing the finger at me, I really thought—"

--she smiles as the Glamour melts into the face of Hermione Granger—

"—_you_ were the fucking insufferable know-it-all."

As he reaches for the wand, she blasts his godforsaken penis off his body. He howls in pain, and in that moment he knows that she has poisoned him. He knows that she has made him need her more than anything, realizing the feeling of the potion, and knows also that he could have been great, but that he is going to die.

"Bye bye, Professor. I really do hope that you are good with whatever god you believe in."

He explodes.

Draco Malfoy is another matter. This man is cool and sexy. Bringing him to his knees might kill Hermione if she has to. This boy has had everything for him…except a steady woman in his life.

Hermione has to put a great amount of Glamour into her body so that she would definitely get this boy. She has to seem more appealing than any other woman in the Pureblood whore bar.

He is the only one of them that she has not slept with previously. He is not taken to using whores often.

But she is ready when he decides to do so.

She stands away from the other women, leaning against a pillar. She is wearing a very conservative dress. It is red, and it goes past her knees. It cuts low, but not low enough to turn any man's head.

She has decided on blonde hair. The father has it, the mother has it, and the boy has it. What could the boy want other than blond hair? It cascades in beautiful curls around her neck. She picked very pretty lips this time, and they are crimson. Her eyes are an electrifying blue, her nose long and elegant. Her cheekbones are high and defined, her chin pointed, her jaw square, and her neck as long, graceful, and white as Helen's.

He is immediately attracted to this girl, aloof, looking at the ground, occasionally glancing up at him, but never meeting his eye. He falls for her ploy, hook, line, and sinker.

As he saunters over to her, she realizes that she will have to do some amazing acting with this one.

"Hello, my Lord," she says, gracefully, quietly, respectfully. She knows from the way he looks at her that he likes to dominate, especially in these sort of situations.

"Dear girl, I would love to know why you dress so conservatively."

"I don't want to appear a whore," she replied airily, looking in his eyes.

"Sweetling, you are," he tells her, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She has him.

They retire to his home: a grandiose Penthouse with marble architecture and fountains with black swans.

"Welcome," he tells her as she gawks around. She does not feel him behind her, and is surprised when he begins to slowly tug on the outer jacket of her dress, leaving the sleeveless dress behind. She gasps as he touches her.

His hand is up her dress immediately, and he removes the dainty thong she had been wearing. She suddenly realizes that she wants him to shag her, and shag her senseless. In fact, she wants him alive for long enough so that he may do it to her often. This had never before been the case for any of the other men, and she wondered vaguely why.

Not long enough to keep her from giving into what Malfoy was offering.

He carries her, stark naked, to his bedchamber, where he pillages her body, taking pleasure as she writhes beneath his hands and mouth. He cannot remember ever liking doing these sort of things to a woman before, and realizes that he can do anything he likes without scaring this one away. His imagination takes hold, and he whispers, "I want you to be my slave—just for tonight. I want you to dance, your belly level with my eyes. And I want very much for you to bow low before me, calling me 'my Lord' as often as possible."

She smiles at him, only too happy to give in to his request. In a moment she is dressed in Arabic clothing, dancing before his, her thin belly turning before him, causing his eyes to follow her slowly.

They make love before too long, and he pretends that she is his little slave, obedient beneath him, although still very much in Love with her overlord.

At the end of the night, he whispers in her ear, "Be my slave forever, Granger, and I will protect you."

With shock, Hermione turns over and looks into his triumphant eyes.

"Do you swear it?" she asked.

As he lowers his head to her collarbone, he nods and says, "Oh yes."

"I am yours to command, my Lord," she whispers, and gives into him.

* * *

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters conceived of by J.K. Rowling.


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